The Fishing Trip

The old man walked into the kitchen, carefully holding his fishing rod in front of him. He was manoeuvring it gingerly to avoid knocking anything off the cluttered kitchen shelves with the swaying tip, before finally propping it against the jamb of the front door. When she saw him come in, his wife paused from wiping a damp rag over the table, and stood back to observe him, fixing up a few strands of long hair back into the tight bun they had escaped from. Like the table, she was plain and roughly cut, heavy and sturdy. Her hair was sparse and grey as iron, contrasting with her husband’s thatch of downy white hair as her soft features did with his angular ones.

“Beautiful day, today,” said the old man in his broad Yorkshire brogue. “Thought I’d go out and see if I could catch something.”

“Again? Seems like I saw you going out with that fishing rod only a few days ago. There’s still quite a bit of the last catch left.”

“That were two weeks ago, duck. Besides, we mayn’t get a day like this again till next year. Got to make the most of it while we can.” He turned and looked out of a window, blinking at the brightness of the day. If he expected to see any sign of impending storms, he was to be disappointed. It truly was one of those days that come around only a handful of times every summer in Yorkshire. A day with hot sun, dry air, and a slight cooling breeze. The dales rolled away into the distance from the cottage, with the only sounds being the slight rustling of the grass, and a faint buzz from cables strung between a line of pylons that crossed an adjacent field, vanishing into the distance in opposite directions. There were a group of cows on the far side of the field, who had decided to shelter from the heat of the day in the shadow of an oak, chewing cud and lapping water from a stream. The cows were beef cattle; white-faced Black Herefords; so the farmer who owned the fields there about came only rarely to lead one off for slaughter.

The cottage had once belonged to a gamekeeper when the fields were part of an estate, but the estate’s grounds had been parcelled off for farmland fifty years ago to pay various debts, and as the current farmer’s father had had no use for the cottage, it had been sold. First to a family who were enchanted by the beauty of the countryside, but when the enchantment of the countryside paled in comparison to the convenience of the city, it had passed into the hands of the old man and his wife, for whom the conveniences of the city had long since been recognised as unnecessary nuisances. It would have been lonely for most, but the old couple had each other, and they saw no need for any other regular company. The cottage itself was a typical affair for Yorkshire, built of the dun-coloured chunks of stone that characterise the housing of that district, two stories high and roughly cubic in shape, with a shallowly-sloped slate roof. At the front of the cottage, a macadam track led between two fields until it exited onto an A-road where cars zipped back and forth, too far away for any engine noise to disturb the cottage occupants, and at the back there was a cobbled yard surrounded by a high wall, within which were a couple of plastic chairs, a work bench made of nailed-together planks, and a rusted-up water-pump that had been rendered obsolete when the first family to live there had installed running water.

"When it comes time to eat, meat’s meat, no matter what it’s feeled"

Inside, the old man pottered around the kitchen while his wife held a pince-nez to her eyes and leaned over a recipe book on the worktop.

“Anything that doesn’t fit in the freezer will have to go in the fridge and be eaten in the next week,” she said.

“We’ll have plenty of room, you see if we don’t. Did you put the bait away somewhere, duck?”

“It’s in the biscuit tin on the shelf by the window. Next to the spice rack. That’s it.”

“Well what in God’s name did you put it there for?”

“If you will leave it lying around on the table, I’ll put it away wherever I see fit. If you want to know where it is, then next time you make sure you tidy it away.”

They argued in the friendly bantering tones of a couple who’ve lived together most of their lives, and who argue so that they have something to talk about.

“And another thing. I’m not having you cutting up your catch in my kitchen. I’ve just mopped up and I’m not having you making a right old mullock of the place. Not after last time. I don’t know how you did it but you got bits of skin and guts all over my nice clean floor. Picking shrivelled up pieces out from behind the cooker for days after, I was. It’ll attract rats, you see if it don’t.”

“Ah, quit your bellyaching woman, it’s a beautiful day, I’ll cut it up in the yard. Got that nice new workbench set up there. This’ll be a good time to make use of it.”

“Oh, I hate seeing them wriggle around like that. Wouldn’t it be kinder to just put it out of its misery? You could do it when you make the catch. Save you the bother of having to keep it alive all the way back.”

“Oh love, you know it’s best if it’s cooked as fresh as possible. A rub down all over with the grater to get rid of the skin, rub in some salt, a quick gutting with the fillet knife to get rid of them nasty insides, then pop it in the oven. I’ve got it so I’m right quick now. The last one were still moving around when it went in, and it were the best tasting meal I can remember. When it comes time to eat, meat’s meat, no matter what it’s feeled.” He paused from his flow, and some sympathy came into his voice. “You don’t have to watch if you don’t want to, duck.”

“No, I think I will. It’s the only time I get to see you do any work, you messing about with your catch. The window’s right above the sink anyway, and those dishes aren’t going to do themselves.”

“It’ll be quick love. You’ll see. You put the oven on soon as you see me get back.”

“Don’t you tell me how to run my own kitchen, Tom. Now be off with you.”

“I’ll be off. Don’t forget to work up an appetite. Them as eats most pudding gets most meat.”

While he said this, the old man shrugged on his jacket, and crammed the bait into the inside rabbit pocket. Then he picked up the fishing rod with one hand, a car key from a cracked cow-creamer with the other, and walked out of the door.

The day was even warmer than it had seemed from inside the house, and the old man immediately knew that he was going to be too hot with the jacket on. The thought suddenly came into his head of undressing in the yard while cleaning the catch. One of the benefits of having a house out in the country: no nosey neighbours for miles around to look over into your yard. He’d take his clothes off and pose for her like he sometimes did before they went to bed. Wouldn’t she be surprised! And the catch too of course. He chuckled at the thought. His jacket was a medium green tweed, with matching waistcoat, brown flannel trousers, blue bow tie, and grey flat cap completing the rest of his ensemble. When he was young he’d worked down at one of the steel mills like most of the men his age, and none of them would have countenanced walking around outside without a hat and jacket. Now, though many years had passed, he saw no reason to change, certainly not because everybody else had. The old man worked as a security guard at the shopping mall in the city now, and it horrified him to see the things grown men walked around wearing: crumpled cotton T-shirts that looked like the sort of things they’d sleep in. No respect, that’s what it was. Children grew up not being taught any respect, and when they got to be adults they’d no respect then either. He’d been working as a guard for fifteen years now. He was a few years past retirement age, but he was a good worker who knew every inch of the shopping mall inside out, he could spot a shoplifter just from the way they walked through the stores, and he was a valuable source of experience to the younger security guards. The management knew this, and were happy to keep him on as long as he wanted to stay. For his part he enjoyed walking around all day. It kept him fit and healthy, even though him and his wife ate a lot these days. The fat settled on her, but he stayed lean and wiry. He’d gained a lot of muscle from shifting metal around the steel mill for over twenty years in his youth, and even now he was stronger than many men half his age. The bow tie and waistcoat he wore on weekends, to make a change from the navy suit and tie he wore at the mall all week. He didn’t have much of chin, so his neck seemed to stretch up to his mouth. Combined with a loose dewlap and pronounced Adam’s apple, this left him bearing a slight resemblance to a turkey.

He walked round to the side of the house, where his white Honda was parked up, and a minute later he was driving carefully along the macadam track, before pulling onto the tarmac of the main road and speeding away across the dales.

He drove for upwards of thirty-five miles before coming to a river. It wasn’t the nearest river, but one that was perfect for fishing, and one that he hadn’t visited before. He never liked to fish in the same place twice. A small track led off from the main road, roughly parallel to the river margin, and he drove along this slowly, looking for a likely spot.

When he had found the spot he wanted, the old man parked the car under the shade of a clump of trees a little further along, then took the fishing rod off the front seat next to him, and walked over towards the river. For about a ten metre distance along a bend in the river, the bank was free from bushes and trees. One of those places along rivers kept clear by the regular attentions of anglers, but today, the only angling was being done by a young boy. The day was so good, that the middle-aged men who make up the bulk of anglers had been press-ganged into picnics and outings with their wives and children, leaving only those with no family responsibilities free: the young boy, and now, the old man.

"One of the benefits of having a house out in the country: no nosey neighbours for miles around"

The young boy was about ten years old, with lank blond hair down to his shoulders. He obviously didn’t see the point of hairdressers and his parents saw no reason to force him to go too regularly. He had a snub nose and blue eyes that were presently surmounted by a furrowed brow as he concentrated on the point where his fishing line dropped down into the water, willing a fish to take a bite. He started with surprise when the old man sat down next to him, but was quickly distracted by envy for the old man’s fishing rod, which was an expensive new one, gleaming silver and outshining the boy’s own cheap red rod that he had saved up his pocket money to buy.

“Nice day,” said the old man. “Good to meet a fellow member of the noble angling community.”

The boy grunted and returned to concentrating on his fishing line. He had caught one small roach so far, but that had been over forty minutes ago, and he was beginning to feel frustrated. This was his first fishing trip, and he’d imagined himself astride the bank, flicking his line into the river, and reeling out dozens of fat carp. After the initial excitement of his first catch, the reality was disappointing, and now he felt that he hadn’t a chance of catching another now that the old man had arrived with his superior rod that would be obviously preferable to any passing fish.

The old man reached into his jacket’s rabbit pocket, searching for the bait. For one moment he thought he’d forgotten it, but then his fingers closed around it, and he drew it out. The boy saw the man take it out from the corner of his eye, and immediately whipped his head round.

Clutched in the old man’s hand was the very latest handheld PlayStation games console.

“Is that a PSP Go?” the boy said, his eyes widening.

“Well I don’t know the name, but it’s the latest model. You can have a go if you like.”

“Brilliant,” said the boy, snatching the console from the man’s proffered hand and starting to press on the buttons. “I wouldn’t have thought someone like you would have one of these.”

“Someone so old you mean?”

“No offence, mister.”

“None taken, young sir. Enjoy being young while you can. This belongs to my grandson. He’s up at my car now. He’ll probably join us once he’s stopped sulking about going on a fishing trip. Wanted to stay cooped up in the car playing with that thing, but I said, no, you can play those pocket games any day you want, but going fishing on a day like this is something that comes around once in a month of Sundays, and I’m taking this electronic nonsense with me. Do you enjoy the game?”

“Yeah. Bit boring, though. Just one of those card-collecting games, you know.”

“Tell you what. My grandson’s got a heap more games over in the car. Lot of those fighting games with lots of blood in them. You like those? Well, come and pick out whatever you want, and we’ll see if we can’t get my grandson to come down and fish with us. I dare say a young man like yourself will have a much better chance of persuading him than me.”

“Yeah, I’ll come. I could help him fish if he’s not done it before.”

The boy leaped to his feet and started jogging towards the direction the old man indicated. The old man kept pace behind him, walking quickly, and taking his fishing rod with him.